Dark Embrace
by LoveHP
Summary: In a world where all hope was lost when Voldemort won, evil weaves its way across the globe at a frightening pace. Neville Longbottom, the once pitied fool of Gryffindor has decided to fight or die trying. Because friends and family is all that matters when it is the only light in the darkness. He just hopes he doesn't lose himself in the process.
1. The Last Hurrah

**Dark Embrace**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own HP.**

 **Warnings: Dark story with many confronting themes.**

 **Characters: everyone.**

* * *

 **The Last H** **urrah**

A death rattle…

A steady drip of blood onto stone...

The soft echoing of footsteps…

Darkness enveloped him in a cocoon of fear and despair. It was suffocating, intruding and hellish. He was trapped with no hope of an escape.

The footsteps stopped.

His death rattle quickened. _Let me die._

"We have taken your eyes, Harry Potter," the cold voice spoke, puncturing the thick swirling bleakness. "A gift for Severus."

There was a titter of laughter somewhere in the dark void. It was Bellatrix Lestrange.

"We have taken away your dignity."

His rattling breath quivered at the very thought of what he had endured.

"We have taken away the very thing that makes you a man, Harry."

He had no energy to fight, to retaliate and to even speak a few choice words. He wanted to die.

"Your friends all think you died many months ago. And while my servants have had their fair share of enjoyment, I think you are on the verge of death because of their many exploits. I will have those Death Eaters punished… because your death is unfortunately… one I cannot afford now."

Harry would have loved to laugh. It would've drowned out Voldemort's victorious voice.

Cold fingers prodded his scar. Yet he could not fight back. "Good, Harry. You have given up."

Harry hoped that somewhere out there people would continue to fight.

"Are you ready, Harry? Are you ready to be my Horcrux forever?"

His mouth was pried open and he felt a cold rim of a goblet touch his lips.

The death rattle quivered again. Harry wanted to go with a bang and so he used the very little life he had left to speak. "C-clo…ser. Closer."

"What is it, Harry?"

"Ffff…" Harry inhaled deeply. He knew when he exhaled his heart would stop. "Fuck you!" he spat and it felt great.

The liquid was poured down his throat before death had the chance to take him.


	2. Seven

**Seven  
**

Seven. In Muggle culture it was an odd number, but for a wizard, who was into superstition and myth, seven was a significant number. It was a magical numeral, prized with ancient wonder and mystique, as Neville's grandmother, Augusta Longbottom, had continuously drilled into him from a young age. It was also a digit that the Dark Lord treasured.

Now after years of war, the magic of seven was nothing but a dark wonder, a blackened sheath of fear and dread. For the Order, for the ex students of Hogwarts, it was also remembered as the number that tormented them all.

Neville gazed at the eager and nervous faces around him. They pulled forward, tighter, forming a circle. Their hair and beards neatly trimmed, while the women and girls had their hair out of their faces in slick buns or braids. Scars marred their skin as a testament to the many duels and battles they had encountered in the five years since Voldemort had won.

Ron Weasley frowned as he outstretched his hand into the middle. He held tightly onto an old can of stewed fruits. Then his sister followed suit, placing her hand above his, squeezing lightly. Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan joined in, the Patil twins and Luna Lovegood, and on and on it went, until Neville was the last person to place his hand over theirs.

They were excited and scared, pumped full of adrenalin. Neville smiled at the all, staring into their eyes for a brief moment, trying to envision the horror that had witnessed or experienced in the five years of hell they'd been through.

"Are we ready?" Neville said confidently.

Seven. Seven days. Seven minutes past midnight. On the Seventh hour or the Seventh month they would fight. They'd fight until blood ran cold on the ground. They'd surprise the Death Eaters, put a dent in the army, and even stop illicit trades from making its way into England or out of it. The Order would take them out, even if it also took their last breath.

"Yes!" they chanted back.

 _"…Born as the seventh month dies…"_

It had once been Harry's fight.

Neville inhaled deeply, closing his eyes, remembering the bloodied notes Voldemort sent every seven days.

 _Disband the Order. Do not fight the power of Lord Voldemort. Disband, and bow down to me and Harry Potter will live._

Those notes would always be accompanied with a little piece of Harry Potter: blood, clothing, Fingers, and an eye and other body parts. Every seven days it continued. It was the hardest thing the Order would have to do, to not heed Voldemort's threat. To not give in… to abandon The Boy Who Lived to his gruesome fate.

The notes stopped months later with Harry's hand being dumped outside of Gringotts. A scrunched up note was held within the whitened fist.

 _Harry Potter is dead._

 _Soon you will be next._

The people were slowly turning against the Order, hesitantly kneeling before Voldemort's might. But the Order would never give up its fight.

 _"Have you have to fight with us, Neville,"_ Hermione cried. _"Harry would've wanted you to."_

 _"…Born as the seventh month dies…"_

Now Neville shouldered that burden.

"For Harry," Neville shouted. The ferocity of those memories shining through every word he spoke.

"FOR HARRY!"

The Portkey in Ron's hand glowed fiercely and suddenly they were ripped from their relative comfort to battle, to rescue and to avenge Harry Potter and all their dead loved ones and friends.


End file.
